


an ideal way to fall in love

by isxzusstars



Category: Free!
Genre: Also just me experimenting, It's basically an artist au, M/M, Oneshot, it's quite short, not that angsty, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24769528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isxzusstars/pseuds/isxzusstars
Summary: An ideal painting but Kisumi doesn't get it.
Relationships: Shigino Kisumi/Shiina Asahi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	an ideal way to fall in love

A painting. A fiery sketch with dim colors. Amateur but promising. A piece of art that would take centuries to be counted as a relic. Kind of like Van Gogh and… Fuck. Kisumi didn’t know any other artist to add to his list of praise.

It was set out on a window display in an arts workshop. It was on display with multiple other paintings but somehow it stuck out to Kisumi a bit more. Its name all stood out more to him. “Ideal” was it’s given name and it had been given to the workshop 7 years ago (unless he was reading the wrong plate card). A figure that looked like a hand crushing multiple flowers, leaving only one, which was poking out of chaos, intact. The surviving flower was the dimmest of all, Kisumi took a while to realize it. The painting was less than ideal with its intense contrast in colors and puzzling textures.

The people passing by the display looked like they shared that opinion. Their thoughts shown through micro-movements, such as a little frown, a mouth twitch a quick eye glance. All gave away the sign of an attempt to understand what the painting was about. Nevertheless, they gave up and continued on with their busy lives after a maximum of three seconds.

The pink-haired boy had stopped. He had been stuck in the same position for at least five minutes. Maybe because of it’s bewildered look, or maybe because of the brushes intricate strokes on the edges of the rough frame. It gave him a sense of euphoria. Why? He didn’t know. It was beautiful in his eyes though. It was happy and warm despite the hand-drawn seeming frustrated, despite it being so angry and smashing the flowers drawn. It had given him a feeling. Maybe this is what the artist had been going for? Was the painting for himself? Was it for someone else? What was the ideal behind this?

The 26-year-old man wanted to know who made it. What was the ideal represented? Was the ideal death? Was that what the crushing flowers represented? Was it an ideal to live like the on the flower that had survived? Kisumi was no artist nor one with the knowledge to be able to interpret a painting. 

Was it the artist’s view of life? Was it some time of conflicted persona he managed to convey with oil paint? Possibly a sense of security, a safe place for the artist to store all his feelings upon.

Apparently, the works on display had been made by the previous people that had gone to the workshop. The plate card next to them had their business cards and numbers, however “Ideal” only had an address.

The location given in fine ink hadn’t been that far. It was actually quite close to the workshop. Only 3 bus stations and he had arrived at the address. A plain-looking house. It was normal.

Maybe the man had expected more from the exterior of the house. But quite frankly it fits. 

A woman greeted him when he rang the doorbell. She looked like she was in her early thirties. She had a graceful smile. But something about it didn’t seem complete. Like an original drawing stolen from its canvas replaced with a rushed sketch. Something had been stolen from her. Something that took him the chance to see her true smile.

He explained who he was here for. The one who made “Ideal”. The woman looked slightly agape, maybe because Kisumi went straight to the point. She had mumbled something underneath her breath (Kisumi didn’t quite get it). She quickly nodded and guided him forward into the inside of the house. They passed through a corridor. She stopped at a door and took out a key. She opened it after a few tries and a young man greeted them.

He looked to be in his early 20s, he was laughing somewhat obnoxiously like Kisumi was the funniest thing he had ever seen in the world. His smile though was contagious in the picture frame that he was placed upon. Kisumi couldn’t help but smile too. What had he been laughing at he wondered? He sat down in front of the man’s altar and bowed down. His eyes rested upon the picture after whispering prayers. His hair a peculiar shade of red, his nose a bit too scrunched up. Guess this was who he was before the overpowering hand of life had taken him.

Ah. Kisumi felt relieved. At least no awkward small talk would be insinuated. Something that he particularly hated. Even though he felt his muscles smoothen and contracting, he could feel his eyes getting watery, and tears stream down his cheek.

He still didn’t know what “Ideal” meant and he didn’t think he would ever know. His assumptions and theories couldn’t be able to catch up with another human mind.

_Had the redhead been alive, had the sound of his laughter been the one greeting him, maybe it wouldn’t have just been love at first sight._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my small oneshot!
> 
> The meaning of “Ideal” in my head was Asahi’s ideal peak in life. The hand had crushed everything. His life, his dreams, his relationships. But the dimmest flower? Is his small presence. As long as his name keeps being said the hand won't be able to get rid of him. His name? Was the painting.
> 
> At least this is my own interpretation of it.
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading this!


End file.
